My Rival is My CEO

Chapter 11: One Key,One Bed

*ELENA'S POV*

One bedroom.

The words were still ringing in the glass office while Charles walked out like he just closed a merger. Two housekeepers left the suitcases in the middle of our ONE desk office and disappeared.

My pink Rimowa. Damian's black Tumi. Side by side. Like we were already married.

"You're not saying anything," Damian said, still holding the single key.

"I'm calculating how to murder Charles Knight and make it look like a heart attack," I said, voice flat. "That's still illegal, right?"

"For you, I'd make it legal."

I looked up. He wasn't smirking anymore. He was staring at the key like it might explode.

"One bedroom is insane. This is a 2019 Agreement, not a prison sentence."

"He did it on purpose," Damian said, low. "Press. If we don't live together, Evans Global lawyers can claim the marriage is fraud and void the whole deal. We lose Knight Corp. Your father loses the $40M he invested in us last year."

I grabbed my phone. Called my father. Straight to voicemail. Of course.

Texted: _DAD, MY APARTMENT? REALLY?_

He replied in 4 seconds: _Clause 9.4. You signed the internship contract at 16. Read the footnotes. Be home by 7 PM. Photographer 8 AM. — Dad_

Be home. Not my home. _Our_ home now.

I looked at Damian. "We have to go see it. At least know what kind of hell we're moving into."

*DAMIAN'S POV*

Hell had an address: 57th and Park, The Whitmore Penthouse, Floor 62.

I knew this building. My father owned three floors. He'd been saving this penthouse for two years. Now I know why.

The doorman took one look at our two suitcases and one key and said, "Mr. and Mrs. Knight, welcome home."

Elena flinched at Mrs. Knight. I didn't correct him.

Elevator up. 62 floors of silence. Our shoulders not touching on purpose. Her perfume filling the tiny space.

The doors opened directly into the penthouse.

And it was... perfect. And terrible.

Floor-to-ceiling windows, all of Manhattan at sunset. Open kitchen that costs more than Cole's student loans. And one bedroom. One giant bedroom with one giant California king bed in the middle, already made with white sheets. One closet. One bathroom.

One. Everything was one.

Elena walked in slow, heels clicking. She went straight to the bedroom, like she needed to confirm it was real.

"One bed," she whispered.

"One bed," I confirmed.

She turned around fast, eyes wide, that black dress still hugging her. "Okay, rules. New rules. We need rules."

"I'm listening."

"Rule 1: You sleep on the left, I sleep on the right. Or you sleep on the couch. There's a couch."

"There's no couch in the bedroom, Evans. I checked."

"Then we buy a couch."

"Photographer comes at 8 AM to take 'happy at home' photos. He's going to see a couch with your blanket?"

She groaned. Dropped onto the edge of the bed like she hated it. The mattress bounced. I watched it bounce.

"Rule 2," she said, pointing at me, "No... you know... touching. At night."

"Define touching."

"Damian!"

"Okay, okay. No touching without asking. Like the outlet rule."

She nodded, but her neck was red again. "Rule 3: Bathroom schedule. I need 40 minutes in the morning."

"You have 20. I have a board call."

"30."

"25. Final offer."

She glared. I smirked. This was almost like our old negotiations at Crestwood, when we fought over who got the library table.

Then her phone buzzed. My phone buzzed at the exact same second.

Group email from Charles, CC'd to entire Knight Corp and Evans Global.

*SUBJECT: FIRST NIGHT AS MR & MRS KNIGHT — HOUSEWARMING DINNER TONIGHT 8 PM — MANDATORY — ALL SENIOR STAFF INVITED TO PENTHOUSE*

Elena read it out loud. Her voice got higher with each word. "Housewarming... dinner... tonight... 8 PM... mandatory... in our penthouse?"

I checked the time. 7:15 PM.

We had 45 minutes to unpack, look like a happy engaged couple who have lived together for months, and host 20 senior executives who all think we hate each other.

Elena stood up, kicked off her heels. Barefoot now on the cold marble, black dress, pink suitcase open behind her.

"Damian, we have nothing in the fridge, we have one bed that we haven't decided who sleeps where, and my father is bringing champagne to celebrate us living in sin."

She looked panicked. For the first time since the Agreement bomb, she looked actually scared, not savage.

I walked to her closet. Opened it. Empty except for two hangers. One with my tux from last night. One with her velvet gala dress from last night. Side by side.

I grabbed her pink suitcase, lifted it — heavy — and put it on the bed.

"Then we unpack together," I said. "You take left side of closet, I take right. Like the desk."

She stared at me, at the suitcase on the bed that we were both going to have to sleep in tonight.

"And the dinner?" she whispered.

"We host it in that black dress. You smile like you love me. I'll smile like I own you. And at 11 PM, when they all leave, we figure out the bed."

The intercom buzzed.

Downstairs voice: "Mr. and Mrs. Knight, your first guests have arrived early. Your fathers."

It was *7:51 PM*. 9 minutes early. Both of them.

Elena looked at me, barefoot, suitcase open on the ONE bed, no food, no plan, one key still in my hand.

"Damian," she said, low, urgent, "If my father sees us like this -"

The elevator dinged. Doors opening. And I could hear both our fathers laughing in the hallway, plus Zara's voice saying, "Oh my god, they haven't even unpacked."